American Latinos invade Hollywood. 'Bout time.

CRUISING WITH CORONA: Purdy Becky

My cousin Becky was standing in front of the mirror when I asked, “Did you lose weight? You look about 250.”

“I’m down to 180,” she said teary-eyed.

“Please don’t cry. It’ll mess up your caked on make-up.”

“You think I’m wearing too much make-up?”

“I’ll put it to you this way. If you applied for the clown job at Ringling Bros. Barnum & Bailey Circus with that much make-up on your face, you’d be over-qualified.”

She slumped.

“Please don’t slump. It makes your humpback more noticeable.”

“I’m not slumping!”

“Oh sh1t, the hump’s getting bigger then. Okay look, Becky, I want you to look in the mirror and be totally honest with yourself. From 1 to 10, what would you rate yourself?”

She pondered…pondered some more…finally, “A seven?”

“I asked you to be honest, Becky.”

“Five?”

“Beckyyyyyyyyyyy?”

“Two?”

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. And please don’t ever wear white like this again. I’m really fvcking tempted to write Goodyear on you right now.”

Becky’s father poked his head in the room, “Is my Princess ready to have her daddy walk her down the aisle?”

“In a minute, daddy,” she said through happy tears.

Her father left and I said, “Thank you for inviting me to your wedding, Becky. And please cover the fat bulging out of your shoes. I wouldn’t want you to literally get cold feet. See you in a few. And remember, all eyes will be on you at the altar.”

Becky never came out to get married. I was glad. That wannabe groom was an asshole anyway.